The Dead Man's Name
by Eykiel
Summary: What if the heroes had time to say goodbye to Eun Wol before their memories of him were erased? (AU, EunxFreud, EunxHeroes. One section of smut. Oneshot for now.)


AU where the heroes have time to say goodbye to Eun Wol before the memory curse takes effect.

And how could I resist dedicating some (_half!_) of the fic for Freunwol? This was written in the midst of my preparation for finals, which is why the sudden rush of fics and updates. But ah, well.

**Not wholly smut-centric, but contains a section of it later on.**

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_They say you die twice — once when you breathe your last, and another a bit later on, when somebody says your name for the last time._

'Eun.'

It is a cruel twist of fate that led them to this point in time, standing in the ruins of the Temple of Time. The body of the Black Mage is trapped in its seal, pressed away into a dimension where he will not hurt any other living being for the next few centuries, his wizened form and tattered robes naught but shadows in the crystalline magic structure holding him in place.

'Eun.'

In the midst of flakes of ash that rain down from nowhere, fragments of broken bones filtering out of a dying heaven, they stand: all six heroes, clothes and hair fluttering in a breeze that doesn't so much as stir the gently-falling snow.

There is no triumph in their eyes. Instead there is the glimmer of the knowledge that they have lost far too much in this battle, and they have one more thing to lose yet.

And all his years as a wandering nomad with nothing to his name has taught him enough about how pity looks like when it's reflected in the eyes of others.

'Eun, look at me.'

His hands are trembling, why can't he make them stop? Another pulse runs through him, a heartbeat of wretched, unholy magic that makes his hands shimmer before his eyes, like they're about to disappear, they're going to take everything along with him too. Lucid, the little doll-like figure hovering beside the Black Mage, nobody saw her, nobody could've predicted that he'd have such an arcane trump card up his sleeves. But somebody had to activate the seals, and that somebody was _him_ —

'Eun. You're still here.'

Freud's gloved hands snake around his. The mage's hands are steady, like they've always been, and gentle too, the hands that tuck his long black hair behind his ears before they tilt his chin up gently for a kiss —

'My name is Eun Wol,' he says. His voice is strained and cracked in the deathly silence enshrouding the broken temple. It will probably be the first of the many times he will have to introduce himself this way, all over again.

The name sounds foreign on his tongue now, a strange word that he knows others will have problems pronouncing for the first time, not that it would make any difference how easy it is to remember, now —

'Let's go home.'

Home?

He has never had a home. He spent his time running from monsters who wore human faces. He spent the days hidden in a shadowy back alley with three exit routes, trying to catch some shuteye with one ear picked for noise and the sound of his conscience knocking on the door. He spent the nights making acquaintances with poisoned knives and the warm surface of a sleeping target's neck, creeping along the roofs out of the moonlight to get someplace safe and away from the authorities, because he has to live and he cannot do so in prison.

'Okay,' he whispers, and lets Freud lead him out the otherworldly, crumbling temple and into the cheerful sunlight that filters past the clouds.

The outline of his hands shimmer again, and if Freud feels anything awry, he doesn't comment. They climb onto the Onyx Dragon's back and descend through the clouds, soaring over the world that they fought and sacrificed so much to protect, all burning fields and collapsed houses and fires and smoke and death, but at least it is safe for now.

The idea of home is a comforting one —

Home is where he is safe for the night, without having to fear a blade slipped between his ribs as he sleeps. Home is with this ragtag bunch of heroes, with clashing personalities and opposing viewpoints, rough edges and conflict all around.

Home is in this dying world, where they will know and remember his name.

Home will be nowhere, soon.

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The afternoon drags by, as if Rhine herself had gone to sleep after such great expenditure of her power. In the dreary afternoon sun that is so glaring that it is hard to believe an entire war just came to an end, the Heroes rest in tired silence.

He helps Freud bind up Aran's ruined leg, pressing the herb concoction carefully to her open wound and hushing her as she hisses in pain. They'd pushed her down despite her insisting that she could walk, and carefully dressed her wound and instructed her to lie down for a few hours more.

Mercedes was in better shape, only having superficial wounds. The Dragon Master was quick to cleanse her wounds with his holy magic, leaving the dressing and wrapping to him. He keeps his eyes carefully on the bandage so he will not have to look her in the eyes.

'Eun. Thank you.' He feels her slender fingers running down the ruined sleeve of his leather robe, and stills, committing this time to memory. 'It wouldn't have been possible without you. I thank you on behalf of my entire Kingdom.'

He shakes his head gently and pats her hand. There is no need for thanks. It is his world, even if it is, after all, a world in which in which mercenaries have no place in from the beginning.

Phantom is sprawled on the couch, groaning theatrically as Freud hovers a hand lightly over his body for traces of residual magic. The thief somehow still looks smart and posh in his torn uniform. Phantom will be alright.

He goes over to Luminous, who is nursing a swollen ankle and the wounds on his left arm. He doesn't sense any more of the Black Mage's magic there.

'To think you are the final piece needed to seal the Black Mage away,' muses Luminous, as he gets out gauze and cleans the blood and dirt from the wound. The Light Mage hisses in pain.

He pulls away, letting the mage catch his breath before working on the wound again, moving gentler and slower this time. 'I did pull my weight in the end,' he murmurs jokingly.

The Light Mage's gaze is piercing. He remembers when Freud first introduced him to the Heroes, and Luminous had kicked up a huge fuss, yelling, 'We already have our hands full with one scoundrel, Freud! We do not need another in our midst.' But Freud had insisted he stayed, to Luminous's upset.

And here they are.

'Indeed you did,' murmurs the Light Mage. 'I suppose for a hired gun, you are not all that bad.'

'That's the highest praise I'm ever going to get out of you, aren't I?' He chuckles and readies some bandage, wrapping it around Luminous's arm.

Luminous looks away grudgingly.

'Praise and gratitude,' Freud calls from across the room.

He smiles and pats Luminous's hand. The Light Mage doesn't reply, he merely smiles just a little, a quick and awkward little smile which he might have missed if he had blinked then.

He heads over to wash up, changing into his plain white tunic and its black pull-on, after which he is immediately besieged on by the incorrigible Master Thief, who swoops upon him like magpie to gem. Before long he is seated at Phantom's desk, squinting hard at the the thin metal piece in his fingers.

'No, you hold the lockpick like this… with your fingerti — yes, just like that. Hold steady and slot it in. Gently.'

He grits his teeth and carefully threads the metal hook into the heavy industrial lock. Phantom hovers over his shoulder, watching him.

'I can't feel the pins in the lock —'

'Then you're not holding the pick right. Let me see.'

They've been at it for a whole hour. He manages to pick the smaller locks with the skills he'd taught himself out in the field, but he is stopped by heavier locks and he remembers why he always prefers sneaking into houses by the rooftops instead.

'Your grip is wrong. Readjust your thumbs.'

'Nobody picks locks like this, Phantom —'

'Which is why they call me the Master Thief. Now quick just do as I say. Thumbs out a little more.'

He huffs and does as Phantom instructs, picking up the wrench and slotting it back into the keyhole before inserting the pick inside. He feels about for the loose pins inside, carefully pressing them in the order that Phantom had written down for him.

'Twelve pins… so I'll start with the… seventh one…'

'But this is a heavy duty lock.'

'Oh, right. The security pin. I'll get that first…'

A click. He grins.

'Now we're getting somewhere,' purrs Phantom. He can feel the Master Thief's gaze boring into the back of his head and does his best to ignore it. 'You know, you should really thank me for teaching you the tricks of the trade.'

'I _am_ grateful.' Another click.

Phantom huffs. 'Not enough, it seems. This will set you up for life. Nobles all use these locks… apparently some thick-skulled couch potato changed his lock just as I joined the Heroes, and thought that it was the one that stopped me. Now _everyone_ has it. Pfft, as if anything could stop my thefts — Me! The Master Thief Phantom!'

He can almost hear Phantom rolling his eyes over the minute sounds of clicking lock pins. 'Nothing can stop that ego of yours, that's for sure.'

'You'll be missing it soon enough,' Phantom huffs back, and then immediately falls silent.

He blinks as the lock snaps open in his hand and clutters onto the table, sending picks scattering and falling to the ground in a rain of tinkling metal. His hands must've jerked suddenly, triggering the last pin and twisting the wrench to pop it open.

There is silence for a while, before the master thief lets out a breath of air.

'… Sorry,' Phantom says quietly.

He bends to pick up the metal pieces. Phantom joins him. 'It's alright.'

'No it isn't. I was insensitive.'

'Phantom. Really. I'm fine.'

The Master Thief catches his wrist. He glances at the metal picks in his hands, they're shaking slightly, reflecting the yellowed light from the lantern like streaks of a shimmering river.

He snatches his hand away.

'Even if we can't do anything to stop this… curse,' says Phantom, picking up the rest of the metal pieces, 'Know that you really were a good friend to have. And I don't make friends easily. Only you, and Freud. The rest of the gang… _may_be.'

Phantom's words should lighten the weight in his chest, but it doesn't.

Soon, the only friends that he has ever let himself make in his life will be gone.

'Thank you,' he says, but he can't bring himself to mean it.

The Master Thief turns. He sticks his hand out. On his palm gleam three golden items, an L-shaped hook, and two other flat pieces with oddly shaped teeth at the end.

'My best lockpicks.'

'Phantom, I couldn't possibly —'

'I could easily make so many more. I don't need them. Really.' Phantom rolls his eyes and all but thrusts them into his hands.

He looks down at the golden pieces, a little scratched on the ends but otherwise as new as if they were brand new, sleek and painstakingly polished.

'Phantom… you —'

'Just take them off my hands already. They're just occupying space. And anyway I've given up my life of thievery.' Phantom sighs dramatically. 'Such a pity, no? You can take up the baton in my honor.'

He nods dumbly, tucking the golden picks and wrench into an inner pocket.

'I'll remember everything you taught me.'

'Good.'

Phantom sniffs the air loudly, and his eyes brighten. There's still this unmovable speck of what is definitely regret in those amethyst depths. 'Dinnertime! It doesn't smell that bad this time!'

They push him to the head of the table, and the Heroes' two most fearsome chefs place a dish in front of him. He carefully keeps his face emotionless. Mercedes and Aran are watching him intently like hawks, Aran with a crutch to support her bad leg. The entire kitchen is quiet, with the three other heroes watching with a mix of trepidation and warped eagerness to see how he'd react.

The dish is half full with a thick stew, with chunks of meat amidst the gravy. It looks suspiciously like the first dish they'd made when he came here, and it gave him the worst stomach upset in his waking memory. Freud had to tend to him as he tossed and turned in bed, delirious and sweating his mind and appetite away for days. But if Aran and Mercedes were adamant enough to keep trying to cook, surely he can oblige them one last time.

He picks up the spoon and lifts some of the gravy and the meat, ignoring the way it clings to his spoon like goo. It smells good, at least.

But it tastes nothing like how it smells.

Phantom and Freud burst out laughing at his expression, and even Luminous is hard pressed to hold his smile back. They howl like it was some horrible prank, like putting a mix of watery mud and meat together in his dish and heating it up for him was their idea, and Aran and Mercedes protest in indignation like they were the unfortunate ones who had to do the dirty work.

Phantom tries a spoon of his own food and immediately coughs it all over the table, much to the upset of Luminous, and then to the Light Mage's horror, Phantom turns to him and starts coughing even harder in exaggerated motions. Aran gives Phantom a solid thwack on the head with her wooden spoon and then smacking Luminous on the cheek with it when he laughs. Freud quails under the Elven Queen's onslaught of questions and orders to eat, and tries to protest weakly, only to have Mercedes pick up his spoon and try to shove some food into his mouth.

Slowly, one by one, they fall silent, ceasing their bickering and squabbling, to the _tink_ of a metal spoon against fine china.

He looks up from his dish, still chewing. Everyone looks horrified as he lifts another spoonful to his mouth, but he really can't blame them.

'It's good,' he says around the food and around the spoon, swallowing quickly so he can eat another mouthful. 'It's really good.'

Quietly, they watch him finish half the portion. Mercedes tries it for herself, almost gagging on the taste, and tries to take the dish away from him but he holds it tight, quickly making short work of the last of it.

'It's good,' he insists again, even though his gut is churning slightly. 'It's good.'

It will be the taste he associates with the memories of friendship for years to come.

When he is done with his final meal with them, they clear the plates and settle on the couch. By now, everything is bathed in the last light of the day, a glorious sunset that engulfs the hallways and the walls in soft yellow, and if he imagines hard enough he can trick himself into thinking that this point in time will be frozen forever, immortalized in crystallized amber. Hues of rose and deepest violet streak across the skies like spilled paint on streets of heavenly gold. The sunbeams creeping across the floor mark the slow but sure passage of time, of his inevitable end marching ever-closer. He makes each moment last, carefully memorizing the items along the shelves, the books on the table, the lone white lily in its vase in the middle of the table, savouring the final few moments he will spend with the Heroes as his friends, before it withers to naught as the sun slowly eases below the horizon.

Mercedes is the first to stand. 'Eun, we don't have much, but we have something for you.'

'S… something for…?' He is surprised, he didn't expect anyone to have prepared anything at all in such short notice.

'You look as stunned as someone who hasn't ever seen the Elven Queen before,' chuckles Mercedes, her quiet laugh soothing like a tinkling stream. She holds out a wooden charm and he blinks, accepting it gingerly. It's light, far lighter than he expects for something as big as his palm, and intricately carved in such fine detail that only Elves knew to master. A round trinket, a badge of sorts, with runic symbols running the outer circle before converging into the center, dividing the circle into six portions — one for the each of them.

'Wow,' he breathes, running his fingers carefully over the fine detail and admiring the smooth wood under his fingertips.

'It's just a little something I happened to have on me. I borrowed one of Phantom's little knives and carved something quick, just before dinner.'

Mercedes tucks a strand of spun gold behind her pointy ear. Not a strand is out of place. He memorizes the way she shifts her weight forwards and backwards as if wings were to burst out of her back and lift her into the air at any time, the way she clasps her dainty hands over her lap as she talks.

'It's wood from one of Elluel's great trees. A branch fell and I always carried a ring of wood around for luck, but I want to give it to you now.'

'Thank you,' he says, and he means it, from the bottom of his heart.

The sunbeams creep forward, engulfing Aran's boots as she stands. It filters through her ivory hair, turning them into strands of topaz that look milky in the sunset. He gasps in shock when his own weapon is handed to him, familiar and yet with a startling new change: the startling jade accents along the rims, sewn so well into the leather plates that he cannot see the stitching. It is still light as the day he made it, its metal fangs glinting fiercely in the sunlight, and he has never seen it shine as brightly as it has now.

'For you,' Aran says. The warrior of few words and even fewer gifts holds out something else. 'And also for you.'

Its a red tassel of the finest wool ever to pass his fingers. He notices that one of the tassels from Aran's cloak is missing, but she waves it off quietly, her eyes of frostbite not cold, as they normally are, but soft like the first snow of winter. He looks down again, runs his fingers along the crystal beads of sapphire, emerald, garnet, the tiny rings of gold separating the colors. Along each end is another work of art, the woollen thread somehow firm enough to keep the shape of a four-petalled flower, woven in on itself and around the gems there, catching the golden sunlight and casting fractured patterns of broken flowers across the floor.

'It's beautiful.'

'Surprisingly, it's Luminous who weaved the entire thing together,' chuckles Aran, cocking her head at Luminous, who merely huffs and turns away. The soft gold light makes him look lonely, almost, and that bloodied red eye doesn't look as demonic any more. The mage mutters something under his breath and takes to fidgeting with his fingers.

'I spared the gems from my hat,' chirps Phantom loudly, grinning from ear to ear like a cheshire cat who managed to sneak his cream. 'Gave you the best ones. Would give you the bigger one, this sapphire beauty here, but they said it was _too big_ to fit.' The Master Thief sweeps his hat off his head and points to the space where several gems used to be. The light hits the plethora of jewels on the royal blue hat around his scarf, scattering and sending a shimmering dance of multicolored hues racing across the furniture and walls.

'Thank you,' he says again. This time he whispers it, he doesn't trust his voice to hold.

The sunbeams are dimming slowly to ochre, but are still a shade yellower than the red boots that step into its light. He meets the orbs of beautiful sapphire that look even bluer in the golden light, framed by strands of crystallized sunset spun into soft, curling locks. Freud smiles, and the sunset suddenly seems to pale in comparison.

'This is for you.'

A strip of Freud's own robes settle across his hands. He blinks as Freud piles more of the red fabric onto his hands, smiling softly all the while.

'It's a size too small for me, and I figured I could put it to better use than simply throwing it away.'

'But Freud —'

'I think it'd suit you,' says Freud plainly, 'A silent figure against the night sky, framed by the pearly light of the moon, hair and red ribbon fluttering in the breeze.'

His throat clenches.

'The color of sacrifice,' smiles Freud, slipping callused fingers between his own to squeeze his hand tightly.

'I could never repay you. Any of you.'

Nobody replies him.

There isn't anything that needs to be said that he doesn't yet know.

He looks up at the group of people he has taught himself to feel for, the people who have fought with him through hell and back, the people who have loved and lost as he will learn to soon.

And he realises that he doesn't want to go.

'Please,' he whispers into the setting sun, into the end of his time as the world knows it, 'Just… can you… can you please call my name, one last time? Each of you. So I remember how my name sounds —' His voice hitches, he can't bring himself to go on.

_So I remember how my name sounds spoken by my friends_, he wants to say, but can't.

Sometimes, like the times he walks the streets and sees posters of a sullen-eyed man on the wanted list, he wishes he is born in the region, so they can give him the dignity of having his name spelled properly. Sometimes, like the times when he introduced himself to the Alliance in Ereve for the first time, he wishes he has an easier name to remember so they can say his name without mauling it.

Sometimes, times like now, he is glad he has such a unique name, because he can hear the way each Hero shapes the last representation of him. Luminous begins, reciting it like a pledge and mispronouncing it, followed by Mercedes who says it clipped, Aran who lazily drawls through it, and Phantom who makes it sound like an insult in his native tongue.

'Sorry,' say each of the Heroes sheepishly in turn after they are done.

He shakes his head, smiling as the last of the sunlight fades and all that is left is half a bloody, burning disk hovering weakly along the border where earth and heaven meet.

'Don't be. It's something for me to remember you all by.'

He tries to smile but it is impossible to at this point of time, because tears are prickling the corner of his eyes, and he really, really doesn't want to go.

But it is how his story ends.

He will die so many times, his name dead on the tongues of people in this world. He will still live, as an unknown spectre who comes and leaves, who's step will leave no imprint along the streets.

His ultimate downfall is not in giving up his entire existence for a cause that will see no fruition — but in letting these five people into his life, because it is these five deaths that will kill him, it is these five deaths that matter most.

Luminous, Mercedes, Aran, Phantom —

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And Freud's turn to kill him comes a few minutes later, after Freud has led him up the stairs into the room piled high with books and half-written parchments. The renovated half-study-half-bedroom, its simple bed crammed in the corner, its battered desk, its worn nightstand, its candles and lamps are all so painfully familiar. The sight soothes the ache in his heart.

He busies himself memorizing the titles of the strange books along the shelves, the colors of the vials in its storage cabinet, the shape and weight of the quills in their stand. Before long the door opens and closes again, and there is the quiet scent of cinnamon and tea, the warm touch of arms slipping around his waist from behind.

It is hard to pretend, even now, that he will always be Freud's.

'Freud —'

He turns in the familiar embrace, he wants to say so many things, but he doesn't have the time, doesn't have the words to use, though he wishes with all his heart that he does. Freud hushes him and presses tenderly against his lips, and he is thankful he has those amber locks to run his hands through, to reassure him that Freud is his, will always be is, even if from another world away. He is thankful that Freud can feel his silent love through the fervent contact and feel his heart pounding in his ribcage, from trepidation or exhilaration he will never ever really know for sure any more —, he is thankful that he has the mage's soft lips to caress and to savour, to silence and to drown his inept, inadequate words —

Breath is hard to catch as Freud pulls away, bathed in a halo of soft dying sunlight, and he decides there and then that this empathetic, understanding, selfless deity of a lover has never looked more beautiful.

Freud feathers his nimble fingers across his cheek and he stays still, learning the touch of those nimble, gentle hands desperately like it is his first experience all over again. They ghost down, trace the vein down his neck, hover over his pulse as if insisting his heart still has to beat, no matter what he faces — they dance along his collarbones, playing about the rises and crevasses there, the soft spot in the hollow of his neck, and he remembers the first mark that Freud ever placed there, a pendant of deepest crimson, now the same color of the sacrifice he is forced to make, the color of the love he is forced to give up —

The mage's azure eyes are lidded with a glaze that is reserved only for nights of passionate lovemaking, precious and beautiful nights like these, as he flits his fingers across the buttons of his shirt and peels the fabric off like unwrapping a precious book for the very first time. He arches forward into Freud's seeking fingers, pressing against the mage's palms, wanting for nothing but for Freud to memorize every part of him, the dip between his ribcage, the soft hairs that lead past finely toned muscle and below the waistband of his trousers. As Freud works at the buckle and zipper there, he gently slips the golden headband from the woven locks of sunset, undoes the deep sapphire pendant around his neck that is a poor match for those eyes of ocean depths, helps Freud out of his heavy red robes with the ease that is borne only of familiarity and a wordless, desperate wanting. His trousers pool about his ankles as they are locked together again, lips brushing and teeth knocking in little grace and letting soft sounds of passion betray the fear of what is to come, because there is no reason to bar any more holds, not when the apocalypse is nigh and there is no time left for either of them.

He doesn't want to go, doesn't want to leave the mage's firm embrace, doesn't want to don the khaki leather cloak that Freud holds out for him, he doesn't want to be reminded.

And then Freud says,

'Let me at least see how you will look like in the days to come.'

And he cannot say no.

In the darkening sunset that speaks of time, speeding up, spreading its wings to fly, Freud holds out his tunic and slips it over his head, following the hem with his lips as he pulls it down, dropping a line of faint lingering kisses down his heaving torso before pulling the fabric over. He is reminded of someone pulling white linen over a corpse, preparing for the ceremony of death — Freud is a widower now, mourning for this body that will soon be gone, the soul that will watch from afar and will be able to reach him no more. Freud runs his hands up his sides, as he always has in the throes of deepest, darkest passion, reminding him of times like last night and the night before and so many nights when they lay side by side, content to simply bask in each other's presence, and it was enough then, but it isn't enough now.

Freud kneels to slip his leather pants around his feet, and he swallows the lump that appears in his throat when the mage looks up, barely-concealed desire shining past his lashes, locking gazes as he murmurs beautiful, sweet nothings against his calves, his thighs, before sealing them under the fabric. The trousers are pulled to his waist and Freud threads his sturdy leather belt through its loops, never missing his mark even though he is bending to nuzzle into his crotch and breathing in the scent like it is ambrosia, eyes fluttering shut in sheer, delirious pleasure. The sight and the gentle touch stirs awake something carnal and hungry in his groin and he cannot help but card his fingers in Freud's sunset locks for something, anything to hold on to, to anchor him to the world for the last time as the mage hooks a finger in the waistband of his briefs and gently tugs it down.

It is but the work of a moment for Freud to free his quickly-hardening length from the confines of his underwear, and even shorter work before his soft, tender lips are pressed over the precome-coated slit in a reverent kiss. There is no way he could have ever deserved a better lover, one who remembers where to lick and drag his warm tongue over in all the right spots, one who remembers the shape and length of him so well that he can bob up and down with such ease without even gagging once, and definitely not one who looks like he is drunk on the taste of his precome, or perhaps the world's finest liquor. This amazing, amazing god of a lover who swirls his nimble tongue around the head, who lets out the cute sounds of pleasure that run straight to his groin, who loves him like nobody else does and lets him feel it, violently, making him shiver and groan where he stands.

And then all too soon the delicious warmth is gone. He lets out a soft groan of need as his member twitches at the sight of Freud standing, naked all except for the tight whites that conceals the greatest treasure in the world. He holds his arms out and Freud slips his khaki cloak over one arm, lavishing the scars of battles and close shaves, of old and new, one by one, like he used to every night, familiarizing his lips again with the mottled texture of ruined skin in crisscrossing lines. Freud drapes his cloak over his back, leaning in for another fierce, inelegant kiss and he fights to get his arm through the hole while reaching down to pull the mage's flawless body closer to him, closing the distance between them and Freud has to fight to tie the straps together.

Freud pulls away, reaching for the pile of trinkets on the table. He struggles to zip his leather pants, normally he would hiss at Freud in frustration at having to tuck his weeping member back into his underwear, but now he is more concerned with the way Freud cradles the wooden badge carefully in his palms, tying a sturdy leather braid around the buckle he'd attached to the back just moments before, and securing it through the buckle of his leather belt. He only has time to run his fingers through Freud's hair once, those fine strands now brighter than the rays streaming into the room, before Freud retrieves the jade-rimmed knuckle and the red flower trinket. The light is almost the same blood red as the trinket of spun wool that Freud loops around the wooden badge, securing it firmly. Then Freud pulls his hand out, meets his eyes and the expression of sheer lust there has a moan falling from his lips as Freud brings the back of his hand against his mouth and nose, rubbing his cheek along it and breathing in his scent before planting a kiss over his scarred knuckles. With eyes slightly unfocused, the mage nuzzles into his open and trembling palm before carefully slipping on the weapon, turning his arm slightly so the last dying rays of the sun do one last dance along the gleaming teeth.

He holds his arms out when Freud instructs him to. He watches Freud work the red robe ribbon around his shoulders, threading it through the folds of his robe in crimson accents that bring out his sharply angled shoulders. He learns how to work the ribbon into the leather belt around his waist before securing it in a loose but firm knot, and watches the tails of the ribbon flutter to the ground gently, coiling in a heap around his ankles.

Freud takes a step back, surveying his work with soft eyes. He admires the sight of Freud's expression, like perusing a heartwarming storybook, and something in him breaks when he realizes he will probably never see this demeanor on this face ever, ever again.

'You look amazing,' smiles Freud.

He takes a quick sidestep and spins around on his heel, quickly locking eyes with Freud. He knows just how his long oaken locks trail out behind him as he moves, and he's sure the red ribbon now accentuates his every movement. The wooden badge makes his gear look so much more valuable than it actually is, the woven flower trinket and its opalescent jewels adding a touch of grace he didn't know would look good on him.

It makes him feel ready, almost, to face the world he will have to face so very alone.

The last thing he needs — is Freud.

And Freud he has.

They collapse on the bed, the jade knuckle placed carefully on the windowsill, gleaming in the half-light as he capture's Freud's lips, tasting him and memorizing the way Freud breathes and exhales shakily and lets out sweet little moans across his skin. Freud's hands are running down his khaki robe, swiftly fighting past the folds to undo the zipper of his trousers, and pull his length from the confines of his pants along with a moan of relief from his lips.

He whispers Freud's name under his breath as he tugs the mage's briefs down, struggling to keep his desire under control as Freud wraps his hand around his member and starts stroking him, squeezing him gently and coaxing all manner of dirty sounds from him. He quickly reaches over for the nightstand, pulls out the first of the many scented oils in the drawer, thankfully it is the rose-scented one that Freud loves the most. He coats his fingers liberally and Freud all but thrusts himself back against his fingers when they are pressed to his entrance.

This is the last time he can give Freud pleasure. The bitter thought makes him grind his hips against Freud's on every stroke of his finger, gently probing and massaging the little lump that has Freud groaning shakily into his shoulder. Freud throws his arms around him, clutching him closer and he bends to suck hard on the spot above Freud's heart, relishing the way Freud arches up to press more firmly against his lips. 'Another,' gasps Freud, 'Quickly, —' and he trails off into another moan as he slips another finger in, stroking the throbbing walls and scissoring his fingers, working Freud so swiftly that the man is squirming and writhing beneath him, clutching tightly to his cloak.

It is as if the close contact will keep him here for just a while more, as if their harried act will reverse the clock, break the curse, sustain this bittersweet dream for just a moment longer. Freud is whimpering now, a sound that he has never heard before, a sound that is his, all his, a sound that he wants to keep hearing but can't.

'Freud,' he whispers as he nuzzles into the man's neck, as he pulls out his fingers and quickly presses his aching member to Freud's entrance, pulsing and waiting and eager, as Freud always is.

How can anyone look so beautiful in the dim twilight? Having to lose this beautiful god of a lover — it simply _isn't fair_. He closes his eyes as he slides in, and they let out a groan in unison into the darkening room. The heady friction threatens to make his control desert him, as it always does, especially when Freud's entrance pulses so perfectly around him like that. By now they are connected, Freud's legs cinched around his waist to pull him closer, even. He stills to let Freud adapt, mind reeling from the smooth stroke, this always perfect stroke that feels so good that it feels like a sin to forget.

When Freud's eyes focus on him again, he reaches for Freud's hands and twines their calloused fingers together, gripping Freud like the final lifeline he has to the world. He bends and they share a tender kiss, it is almost chaste after the ungainly ones just moments before. Then he starts to move, rocking his hips carefully, taking his time and making sure Freud can feel his entire length. He feels like he is losing a bit of his control on every stroke, but he still hangs grimly on through the heat and the sweet, sweet friction, wanting to remember how Freud looks, eyes glazed and mouth open to shape those soft sounds of desire.

How can he get enough of this world — how can he get enough, when his world _is_ Freud? He tightens his grip around Freud's hands, groaning and closing his eyes, thrusting faster, chasing after his climax with desperation. For one last time, he needs to feel Freud impossibly tight around him in orgasm, he needs to hear Freud's voice crack as every part of him tenses, he needs to see Freud's eyes glazed, blown wide, squeezed half shut as he arches upwards and shoots his load in the most beautiful way that only he can.

'Eun Wol,' the sound that escapes Freud's lips should not be human, it is a prayer to all the transcendents at once, it is the last vestige of a melody that plays in his sweetest dreams, it is the sound that kills him for that final time tonight —

Freud's eyes widen.

And the world spins.

He finds himself blinking away traces of an all powerful magic, a high pitched whine ringing in his ears. The room is blur, double images focusing, shadows where there should be light — but he can see faintly, even if his world is shattered and shapeless even now.

It is Freud, his Freud, eyes wild but narrowed, a shaky arm outstretched to send a blast of magic his way, clutching the sheets close to hide his nakedness.

Freud, his freud, with no trace of recognition across his face.

His Freud — _hurt._

'I'm sorry,' he forces out between his teeth, before he staggers to his feet, feints, snatches his weapon from the windowsill, and vanishes in a blur of blue magic.

:

* * *

:

On the rooftop, hidden from the light of the moon, he tidies his clothes, and listens. He can hear Afrien growling dangerously below Freud's window. The voice of Luminous, laced with angry undertones, as the Light Mage offers Freud cheap words of comfort that he knows Freud will not draw comfort from. Aran and Mercedes, trying to get Freud to take a sip of tea to calm his nerves, trying to get him dressed, to clean the sheets. Phantom, swearing revenge and cursing Aran for holding him back.

He is so sorry. He wouldn't have done it if there was the slightest chance of the curse occurring, but he hadn't known. He is so, so sorry, but Freud will neither listen nor accept it — not from him. Nobody will believe him.

He is but a complete stranger, one who has wronged them all far too much. They'd sooner drive their weapons through his throat for hurting their leader than hear the explanation he does not have the words to give.

The thought of turning away from his friends stirs something horrible in his gut, but he knows that marching himself in will do no good. Even if every bit of him wants to.

Slowly, so slowly that nobody will ever see the movement, he rests his forehead against the cool concrete wall. His legs want to give way, but he doesn't let them. All he lets himself have is a tired whisper into the breeze that is just starting to pick up —

'I'll always remember.'

— then he checks for the wooden badge on his belt, runs his fingers along the woven trinket, slips his knuckle back over his arm, secures the red ribbon more firmly around his waist, and takes a running leap silently for the next roof, and then the next, and the next, and he tries not to look back.

And as he runs, that shadowy figure with oak hair fanning out behind him and illuminated by a ghastly halo of moonlight, the dead man recites his name.

'My name is Eun Wol.'


End file.
